


Letters to the Dead

by Demarogue



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Bad Decisions, Banter, Drunkenness, Explicit Language, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Rebound, Sharing a Bed, solavellan breakup
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:54:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29550312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demarogue/pseuds/Demarogue
Summary: In the wake of their sudden breakup and Solas' disappearance, Niva Lavellan copes by writing letters she know she cannot send. And by playing with fire.The rating of this work has been upgraded from Mature to Explicit, for content due in later chapters.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Cullen Rutherford, Female Lavellan/Solas
Comments: 8
Kudos: 20





	1. Closure

**Author's Note:**

> Did anyone else react to their first Solavellan breakup by immediately running to Cullen to see if you could do a second romance?? Tell me it's not just me.
> 
> The title is in reference to this poem:  
>  ** _Letters of the Dead_** \- Wislawa Szymborska  
>  _Translated from the Polish by Vuyelwa Carlin_
> 
> We read the letters of the dead like puzzled gods –  
> gods nevertheless, because we know what happened later.  
> We know what money wasn’t repaid,  
> the widows who rushed to remarry.  
> Poor, unseeing dead,  
> deceived, fallible, toiling in solemn foolery.  
> We see the signs made behind their backs,  
> catch the rustle of ripped-up wills.  
> They sit there before us, ridiculous  
> as things perched on buttered bread,  
> or fling themselves after whisked-away hats.  
> Their bad taste – Napoleon, steam and electricity,  
> deadly remedies for curable diseases,  
> the foolish apocalypse of St. John,  
> the false paradise on earth of Jean-Jacques . . .  
> Silently, we observe their pawns on the board  
> – but shifted three squares on.  
> Everything they foresaw has happened quite differently,  
> or a little differently – which is the same thing.  
> The most fervent stare trustingly into our eyes;  
> by their reckoning, they’ll see perfection there.

_I owe you nothing._

She stopped, quill poised over paper, a drop of ink growing fat on the tip. It felt ludicrous to continue – petty. Vain. Desperate, even, to try to force closed a door that remained stubbornly ajar, darkness seeping out of it, and baritone whispers. A half remembered scent. 

Lavellan knew it would never click shut. Not really. There would always be a draft.

_I don't owe you a thing. Not after what happened. Not after what you did. But I want you to see how you hurt me, how you broke me, and how I put myself back together again. I want to –_

The quill snapped. She rose to fetch another, found her breath uneven, her palms hot and slick. The anchor throbbed, her clenched fingers glowing sickly green around the edges, always so much sharper when she thought of him. A memento of that fateful day they were thrown into each other's paths. She wondered, not for the first or last time, if it had sewn them together or driven them apart. 

She chose a new feather, sleek and black with a rachis stiff as ironbark, and settled back into her desk chair on an exhale. 

Inhale.

_I want to tell you how it happened._  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Leliana's people searched everywhere for Solas, but Lavellan already knew what they would find: nothing. 

She wanted to think this was unlike him. But he had vanished before – without a word, without a trace, with little more than a whimsical lie by way of explanation – and looking back, she wasn't sure why he had returned at all. _For her,_ she'd believed at the time. So naive. 

It had never been about her. Not to him.

There was, blessedly, a pause between their victory and its grand celebration. A week to rest, or not. A week to recover, mend wounds, clean armor, weep over the fallen and lay their souls to rest. A week to pray. She saw Cassandra kneeling often, head bent, and pretended not to notice the tremble in her clasped hands. Cullen would join her sometimes, sharing the weight of her grief. Her friends were so strong, then – made stronger by leaning together, by laying bare their pain.

Lavellan did not know how to share or bare what haunted her. It didn't even have a name. For her the week was empty, fathomless time she could not fill. Not with sleep that would not come, or tears that congealed like old blood before they could be shed. At the hour of their triumph, the moment she thought everything might change, Solas had abandoned her...and everything did. Just not the way she'd wanted or dreamed or hoped. This was not that other life he'd dangled before her. She felt childish and stupid, like the "little one" he'd called her before he'd called her "heart." He'd been clear and firm and she, silly girl, had believed he would change his mind, if only they could fulfill their purpose. If only they could win. 

Instead, she found winning was the ultimate loneliness. It had elevated her beyond the pedestal she'd formerly occupied – no longer Herald or Inquisitor, but Savior. Not Andraste's servant, but akin to Andraste herself. A foreign god. Without Solas, she felt adrift among these stars, impossibly high. Without him to remind her of herself, she knew she would either float off into space, or fall. He was the only one who had ever really seen her...

No. There was one other. But that door had been easier to close.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
_After Crestwood, I was so angry, all I wanted to do was hurt you. But you were untouchable, so I settled on hurting myself._

_Cullen was where he always was, bent over the papers on his desk and mumbling to himself, despite the late hour. It was a familiar scene made strange by the night. A low candle was dripping from the corner of his desk onto the floor. His armor was hung on a stand, his cloak draped over a chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbow. There was a smudge of ink on his cheek._

_He blinked at me, surprised by my sudden appearance and the bang of the door behind me, and his expression stopped me dead. I'm sure I looked a sight, tear-streaked and red-cheeked with my tunic unbuttoned practically to the navel._

_"Inquisitor? What...what time is it?" He started, before he'd had a moment to really take it all in. Then: "are you alright?"_

_"No," I said. "Don't ask me that."_

_Cullen straightened. His eyes were bright and wary, his body tense. He has a soldier's instincts and a man's desires – I am sure he knew immediately what I was about, but he did not move. He was so still I might have thought him frozen. "Cullen," I whispered, on another step._

_It was a cheap seduction. I could have gone to anyone else to get exactly what I wanted, then – I could have gone to Thom, or Krem, or Sera, or even the Iron Bull, and been forgiven for my foolishness. But I went to Cullen, who had always wanted me._

_Just to make it hurt._

_"Don't do this, Niva." His voice was thick. His gaze burned into mine. "Not like this."_

_On the heels of the first rejection, this second felt like being ripped apart: not at all the pain I'd been looking for. I fled into the night without a word, and we didn't speak again until the party._

_You know. The one that you missed._  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
Josephine wanted her laced up in those horrendous military reds. Niva had different ideas. 

"I love it," Leliana pronounced, securing her long hair with a pin. Her ears flushed at the compliment. 

"You don't think it's too much?"

"Ha. _Fuck_ "too much." You look magnificent. Vivienne will be jealous of that dress."

Niva smiled wryly. "Vivienne has never been jealous in her life."

"There's a first time for everything." Leliana winked at her in the mirror, pulling a few tendrils of hair free to frame her face. "Everyone will be staring." She poured a bit more wine into the glass Niva had barely touched. 

She grasped it with slender fingers, took a guilty sip. Did she want everyone to stare? The dress certainly conveyed that message, gold and glittering against her brown skin. But Niva felt it was less about that, more about being seen as a person. Herself. Unrecognizable as the mythical figure they all wanted her to be. She set the glass back down with a sigh, and they made their way down the stairs.

There was no grand procession, thank Mythal. No formal announcements. It was just a party – well-catered and overflowing with liquor – that slowly devolved over the course of the night. Vivienne, the only one that remained poised and collected, did indeed compliment her dress and request the name of her tailor. Varric made eloquent toasts; the Iron Bull made...less eloquent toasts. Sera cackled from beneath a table, so drunk she must have been drinking since morning. A band played, first cheerful ballads articulating their many triumphs, then bawdy pub songs, as partygoers joined their ranks. A veritable orchestra of improvised instruments; a choir of ill-tuned but enthusiastic singers. Niva heard a few about herself for the first time, and laughed at how filthy and outrageous they were. 

It felt good to laugh again. It felt better to dance. 

She danced barefoot, her stupid Orlesian slippers cast off into some corner, holding her skirt up with one hand to allow her legs some room. She danced on a table top, at one point, swinging Josephine across the silk runner as the ambassador pretended (unconvincingly) to be scandalized. She danced alone, and with Dorian, letting him lead her through steps she could not possibly memorize, not without his childhood of lessons. Even glowing from the wine, he moved beautifully – made her move beautifully. Leliana was right; some people did stare. 

She felt him watching before she saw him. He'd bent to Josephine's demands and wore tailored red and gold, which suited him much better than it did her. With a cup in hand and his posture relaxed, leaning against a table, he looked less their formidable commander, more fresh Ferelden cadet. Niva breezed over to him, emboldened by the festivities and forgetting, just for a moment, that her heart was a broken, battered mess.

"Eyes front, Commander," she teased with a crisp salute, and reached behind him for a glass of water. Cullen took a half-step, to make room. It might have been the candlelight, but she thought she saw a blush rise in his cheeks.

"Apologies. It's just, you look...so..." He trailed off, averting his eyes and looking, she thought, a bit sick.

Solas would have had no trouble complimenting her. He would have said something smooth, something loaded with double-meaning. He would have said even more with his eyes. Niva glared at her water glass before downing the whole thing in two swallows, suddenly angry. Not because Cullen hadn't told her she was beautiful, but because he'd reminded her of him. She smiled tightly.

"Thanks. You look so, too. Very." She looked around the table for a pitcher of something stronger, something better, and poured it into a nearby cup. "Much," she added, raising her glass to toast him. 

He smiled back, softly. Self-deprecating. Warm.

"How are you feeling?"

Niva groaned. "Must you? Look at me." She did a little twirl in front of him, canting her head when they were face to face again. Close. Close enough to see he was watching attentively, as requested. "I am great. Wonderful, even! We won! Time to drink." 

"Niva..."

"Please, I really don't want to talk about it. You turned me down very gently, you were a gentleman, I hold nothing against you, but please–"

"I was _not_ turning you down, I..." He lost whatever he was about to say again, his eyes skimming over her hair, her feet. Her face. "Will you dance with me?"

She blinked up at him, the cup listing in her hand until it nearly spilled.

"You...dance?" This was an unexpected revelation. At the Winter Palace, he had not danced – not once, not all night, despite having dozens of willing partners. He'd stood in his corner and scowled for hours, deftly deflecting Orlesian overtures and remaining perfectly sober. Was he sober, now? Squinting at him, she could not tell. He was a bit flushed, but that could have been the heat of the room. "Yes. Okay."

Cullen led her to the dance floor. Dorian whistled, and they exchanged a glance that might have been hostile if she hadn't known they were friends. The band finished a song and began another, Cullen turned her beneath his hand, and then they were dancing. 

He was, to her shock, very good at it.

Not as good as Dorian, but nobody was as good as Dorian; nobody had his flair. But Cullen had confidence, here. Control. Niva supposed she shouldn't be surprised – all that martial art must have taught him a thing or two about rhythm, about timing. He didn't excel at talking, but moving?

"Dirthamen's balls, Commander. If I'd known this about you..."

She almost said, _the Winter Palace would have gone much differently._ Then she remembered.

No. It would have gone exactly the same.

He was laughing, fortunately, the change in her expression obscured by the dance. "I trust you'll keep my secret?"

"Oh, no," she said solemnly, as he dipped her over his knee. She grinned. "Not at all. Definitely not."


	2. Echo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should mention (clarify?) that, while I love Solas, this fic is very Solas critical. I guess it's my answer for both loving Solas and wanting to shake him upside-down, by his ankles. And wishing something for my Lavellan besides just celibate pining for y e a r s.
> 
> Anyway! Just as non-spoilery a warning as I can muster. And with that, here is chapter two.

It was nearly dawn, when she finally staggered to bed. Cullen walked her to her door, brushed first his thumb over her knuckles, then his lips. Niva thought about inviting him up. But in the space between that thought and some kind of resolution, he smiled, took a step back and turned away. Making decisions for her, again. 

Damn him.

Soft blue light was filtering over the mountains and through her windows. She stood a while on the balcony, reflecting on the night and feeling too many emotions to name. Or maybe that was just a consequence of drinking more than she'd ever drunk in her life. Either the citadel, or she, was tilting slowly side to side, the pinking clouds blurring at their edges. Her body was light as air, so far beyond exhaustion that she felt weightless. For the first time in days, she was sure she would sleep. 

Her head barely touched the pillow before she slipped into dreams. And just as she'd feared, he was there. Waiting for her.

Haven looked much the same as it always did. 

Niva turned a slow circle, feeling a few flakes of snow melt on her cheeks, stick to her lashes. Sometimes, the Fade's version of this place was noisy despite being empty, her memories supplying the clang of the blacksmith's hammer, a peal of laughter, the disembodied nicker of a horse. This time it was as quiet as snowfall. Close. Soft drifts obscured the distances between buildings, narrowed the paths. 

She stood in front of Solas' hut. There was a gray wolf in the doorway. 

"Stop," she pronounced sharply, averting her eyes. "I hate this. If you're going to be here, look like yourself."

Her throat felt hot, and tight. The wolf did not move. It stared at her, still and silent, its fur barely stirred by the subtle breeze, the falling snow. She felt a shadow of uncertainty pass over her.

"I know it's you," she said, even though she didn't.

The wolf turned, disappearing into the dark interior of the hut, and Niva followed it in spite of herself. They had been mere acquaintances, then – she had few memories to supply the details of this space – yet every inch of it was sharp and focused, vivid with texture and color. Much of the room was stuffed with the belongings of the previous occupant: a portrait on a wall, a pot rack, a lute. But there were a few things she suspected were his. On the bed, a pile of his clothes. The small desk, stool and table were all covered in books, scrolls, loose pages of notes in his careful handwriting. Niva winced, turning away from these symbols of him, and noticed the wolf passing through a second door that she was sure had not been there a moment ago. 

Instead of the snowy tableau of Haven, she found the rotunda beyond it.

"Why are you showing me this," she mumbled, eyes darting over the frescoed walls, unable to settle. Since he left, she'd barely spent any time there, passing through it with eyes foward, refusing to linger. But the door had vanished behind her...and the door to the walkway outside, and the stair, and the upper levels. The rotunda became an endless, hollow silo, with paintings stretching up and up and up. A trap, forcing her to see.

The wolf was gone; she was alone. There was nothing to do but look.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
_I went down there when I woke, feeling the Fade at my back._

_I was surprised to find your desk was gone. Someone had packed all your things away, requisitioned your desk for the library or the mage tower, taken down your scaffolding. Only the chaise remained against the wall, but I couldn't look at that. Too many memories...I was sure if I got too close I would catch your scent._

_For months I'd watched you paint, but the fresco looked different that day. Maybe I had new eyes. I noticed the way you portrayed us as wolves gathered around a sword, and was reminded suddenly of the pack in the Hinterlands, spellbound by that demon. I wondered if you thought that's what I was – a demon commanding beasts, obsessed with power, obsessed with myself. I wondered if your unfinished panel portrayed me slaying an archdemon, or becoming one._

_You always thought me proud, but I have never been proud – I have always felt like a fraud. I was being used, and was ashamed that I could not be more useful. I was something makeshift, something repurposed. A stick pretending to be a sword. We were both on the outside looking in, but you chose to be there, and then you chose to withdraw even from me._

_I never had a choice._

_Even you were not a choice. You were gravity._  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"Inquisitor." 

Over her shoulder, Niva saw him standing in the doorway, a bit of afternoon sunshine pouring through before he carefully closed it. Like he'd appeared on a shaft of light. He looked rumpled and sleep-deprived, his hair a little wild.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he continued.

"You didn't." She smiled at him. "Long night?"

"I, ah, couldn't sleep after the party." His hand went to his neck, his eyes slid to the walls, but he moved toward her anyway, as if caught in her orbit. Near, and nearer. 

He stopped a companionable distance away. Niva found herself wanting to reach for him, so she clasped her hands behind her back, instead. They stood in silence for a long moment. 

"Are you..."

"Not really," she preempted, a little flat. No, she was not alright, but what was she? The anger had faded, and in its place...what? "He's just – he's everywhere, here. Every inch of this place. I feel like he left these messages for me," a gesture to the fresco, that swept back and around, encompassing Skyhold, "and I don't know why, or what they mean. I don't know how I can stay here, when everywhere I look there's another stupid riddle. But where would I go?"

Where can I go, when my clan is gone?

Niva kept her eyes fixed on the painting, apparently contemplating Celene's lapis dress, but she could feel Cullen watching her. Knew he could see the unshed tears glittering in her eyes.

"There's a place I sometimes go," he confessed suddenly, closer than she'd expected. She hadn't heard him take that extra step. "When I need space, or time. Just two drafty rooms and a lake and the stars, really. In North Ferelden." He swallowed, as if this was an embarrassing thing to admit. Then: "You're welcome to it."

Her chest felt tight.

"When," she began, thickly, "have you ever taken a break?" He huffed a laugh.

"It has been a while. I went there when Cassandra first invited me to command the Inquisition's forces. After Kirkwall, I needed to think. But the tragedy at the conclave made my decision for me." His armor scraped as he rested a hand on the pommel of his sword, unconsciously. Niva wondered if wearing it made him feel more prepared, even this far from the battlefield. She swiped a tear from her eye and straightened.

"Overdue, then. When do we leave?"

"Oh. I, ah, well, I didn't think..." He took half a step away, though this hardly placed him outside her personal space. At last, Niva turned to really look at him. His cheeks were a bit pink. She cocked her head, and his blush spread to his ears. "Surely you'd rather have some privacy?"

"Not really, no." Her eyes narrowed. This man, and his mixed signals. Only a handful of hours ago they'd been chest to chest, drunk and laughing and dancing to a song about the Lion of Ferelden's Flowing Mane. He'd kissed her hand. Or had she imagined it? "Does a few days in a cabin with me really sound that horrible?"

"Maker, no, that's not it at all..." Cullen couldn't meet her eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbed his temple, mussed his hair, stalling. "Niva, I...I know how to be professional, with you. And I would like to be your friend. But I'm not...casual."

Ah. So that's why he'd objected to the line about the Inquisitor riding the Lion into battle.

She considered him for a beat, weighing his words, his offer. His hesitation. There was a wall between them, a barrier like a shield, and all she wanted in that moment was to dispell it. So she reached out, hooked her index finger around his thumb. Her smile was soft.

"Then come as my friend. No expectations. Just a break, for both of us."

Cullen looked between their hands and her face. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

_I don't want to be alone._


End file.
